


Love, Accidentally

by MrsCaulfield, sunflcwers



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Co-workers, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Healthy Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Romantic Comedy, Romantic Fluff, Speed Dating, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:27:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29656164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsCaulfield/pseuds/MrsCaulfield, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflcwers/pseuds/sunflcwers
Summary: “Perhaps you should just spread your legs and see where it takes you,” Tracy says encouragingly.Crowley nearly chokes on his drink. “Uh. Do you mean my wings?!”“Yeah, those too.”----------When Crowley agrees to attend singles night on Valentine's Day to tide over Anathema's and Tracy's concerns about his luck in the romance department, he doesn't really think much of it. It's a speed dating event. It's not like he'll be meeting the love of his life, right?But then he sees Aziraphale, the gorgeous author who works two floors below him—who he may have been admiring for some time now—and he promptly loses his goddamn mind.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 285
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	Love, Accidentally

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a sweet little romcom fic for your perusal ❤️ Az and I have once again combined our braincells to make a fic (while in the middle of working on Devil May Care)! And much love and thanks to Stef (@flamingbentley on twitter), for being the most wonderful beta and supporting this fic, ilysm hehe.
> 
> Slight reference to a scene from Schitt's Creek (if you've seen the show, you'll know it when you see it ;) )
> 
> Rated M for language and implied sexual content.

The worst part is that it started out as a joke. 

Granted, it was a self-deprecating joke. But it was a joke nonetheless. Crowley makes one dumb little wisecrack about how single he is and suddenly his entire love life, or lack thereof, is put into the spotlight.

This was bound to happen, he tells himself. He headed over to his friend Tracy’s flat for a small dinner party and had already expected who else was going to be there. He knew he’d see Newt following Anathema around like a lovesick puppy. He _knew_ Tracy would be parading her new beau Shadwell at every conceivable turn. So here he is: the only single bloke in the crowd. Really though, how did it escalate into this _?_ It was honestly meant to be nothing but lighthearted.

“When I said it’s been 84 years since my last relationship, I was _kidding_ ,” Crowley punctuates the last word, fumbling with the corkscrew to open another bottle of cabernet. He’s still too sober for a conversation like this and needs at least three more glasses before he could bear it. 

“Yes, we know you were exaggerating but that doesn’t change the fact,” Anathema retorts, holding out her own glass out to him. A silent command for him to pour one for her too. He scowls at her but obliges anyway. 

“Doesn’t change what fact?” he asks coolly, refusing to budge.

“The fact that you really have been single for some time now.” She takes a sip of her wine and sighs. “It’s been around three years since you broke up with what’s-his-name.”

“Plus, jokes are usually half-meant,” Newt adds, plopping down on the seat beside his girlfriend. 

Crowley groans, eyes downcast on his drink. He could see his reflection through the liquid. The reflection of a man who hasn’t had a proper shag in over a year. They were right. He hated that they were right.

“Okay! Okay, yes,” he finally relents. “It _has_ been a long time since I’ve been with anyone, seriously or casually. But it’s also because I’ve been busy with work, and you all know this. Finally got that promotion I was vying for.”

“We’re all very proud of you for that, love,” Tracy placates, entering the room. Antipasto in one hand and a Buddy Holly vinyl record in the other. She places the plate of food down just as Shadwell takes the record and puts it on the turntable. A love song, of course. Of-fucking-course.

“I’m not doing this on purpose, I swear,” he continues, voice soft. “And I just haven’t had much luck in that area lately.” 

“Perhaps you should just spread your legs and see where it takes you,” Tracy says encouragingly. 

Crowley nearly chokes on his drink. “Uh. Do you mean my wings?!”

“Yeah, those too.”

“Well, er,” he coughs. “If only it were that easy.”

(In theory, he _could_ just go out cruising at some bar or club and pick someone up to satisfy an itch, but the execution leaves much to be desired. If he’s going to enter the dating scene once again, he hopes for something deeper. Someone he can actually settle down with one day.)

At that, Tracy brightens up. She shares a knowing look with Anathema before approaching Crowley and sitting down beside him. “That brings us to our suggestion,” she begins, grinning eagerly. “There’s a speed dating event happening next Friday, something for a cause. I think it could be a good opportunity for you to meet someone!”

He stops, an incredulous look on his face. A sincere moment of mental gymnastics going on in his head as their ploy quickly unravels before him. “So you guys want me to go speed dating… on _Valentine’s Day_.”

_What the fuck?_

“It’s only a suggestion, Crowley,” Anathema says, offering a reassuring smile. 

“Yeah, yeah. That’s fantastic, thank you,” he grimaces, taking one last swig of his drink and emptying the glass. 

“Just think it over, lad,” Shadwell pipes in, placing a hand on Tracy’s shoulder. 

Great, they’re all in on it.

“Fine,” Crowley grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, not wanting to look at any of them for fear of even more humiliation. His friends mean well, though, and he knows that. “Just send me the details, Tracy.”

“That’s the spirit, deary!” She pats his knee and gets back on her feet. “You really never know, you might just meet the one.”

“Here’s to hoping,” he mumbles, reaching over for the bottle to pour himself another glass. Despite himself, he’s already contemplating whether or not he ought to go to that dating event after all. An opportunity, Tracy says.

He really is considering this now. Huh.

With a soft sigh, Crowley leans back in his seat and takes another sip. Hopefully the wine and the loud music crooning in the background drown out the rest of his worries for the evening.

_♫ Everyday, it's a-gettin' closer_  
_Goin' faster than a roller coaster_  
_Love like yours will surely come my way_  
_A-hey, a-hey, hey ♫_

\-----♡-----

Crowley has never been much of a fan of Valentine's Day, and contrary to popular belief, it isn't due to his long-standing state of singlehood that he suffers through it one day a year. The whole thing's just way too contrived, and Crowley works in Marketing, he knows exactly how it works. Just one date out of the entire lot that people assigned significance to, hyped up, then spiraled out of control. It's the same with diamonds. Fundamentally, they're nothing more than a bunch of carbon atoms all stacked up prettily. There's no inherent reason why they should be more valuable than, say, a chunk of freshly chopped wood. But humans have a funny way of hyping things up and blowing them way out of proportion. Sometime during the course of human evolution, a group of people gathered round and determined that diamonds _need_ to be used in engagement rings (and the artificial, socially-assigned value of weddings is yet _another_ thing entirely) and then all of a sudden diamonds are _special._ You can't _not_ propose with a diamond, and obviously it has to cost twenty times more than all the other chunks of rocks. It's a genius work of capitalism akin to demonic craftsmanship, and Crowley would appreciate it more were it not for the fact that he's dreadfully sick of it all.

So yeah. Going back to Valentine's Day, he hates it. The hour that he got out of bed, he was already bombarded with a pile of new deadlines, work that he'll need to trudge through for the next couple of weeks. Not exactly getting him excited for it all. He briefly considers skipping the speed dating event entirely, but that might only get Anathema to come up with more schemes to get him back out in the dating scene. And this one's at least been organised for charity, so if it inevitably turns out dry, he'd have at least done a little bit of good in this capitalist-driven shitstorm of a holiday. _And_ he can cross off "Donate to charity" from his list of new year's resolutions (probably the _only_ thing from there that he can cross off, if one’s being honest about things).

He briefly checks himself in the mirror before heading out. Black dress shirt, skinny denims and a pair of thick, lace-up boots. Nothing too deviated from his usual attire. It's not like he's planning on meeting the love of his life. He'll be in a room filled with other desperate singles, for crying out loud. There will likely be a bunch of awkwardly cheesy games and everyone will be awkwardly ambling through them, making a show of enjoying themselves all while eyeing the snacks table. 

Crowley closes the door to his car and starts up the engine, shivers racking his entire frame. He shoves his hands under his pits while he trembles behind the windshield, waiting for the heating to reach its full potency. He's always been prone to getting cold. When he's finally warm enough to properly drive, he loosens his shirt collar and realises that he's forgotten to wear a scarf. 

It's like the universe itself is hellbent on making him suffer through this _one_ day as ruthlessly as possible. 

His destination isn't far off, but he takes his sweet time basking in the warmth of his artificially heated car, aiming to be casually and fashionably late. He isn't _that_ desperate.

Soon, though, there's no more time for Crowley to laze around and he clambers out of his Bentley only to be hit in the face by an icy breeze that stings up his nose. He draws his jacket tighter around him, sauntering into the building as quickly as he can before he starts shivering again. The contrast between the arctic winds out on the pavement and the hellfire warmth inside his sleek vintage car gives him a brain-splitting headache.

Satan's shit on a stick, Valentine's Day is the worst.

The event is being held in a hole-in-the-wall cafe with overly plushy chairs and tiny round tables that are too low to comfortably drink coffee on when you're sitting in said overly plushy chairs. He can tell they're trying to go for some home-y vibe, with the ambient lights and wallpapered walls lined with wooden shelves, filled to the brim with books. On an ordinary day, Crowley can easily picture this place being some little-known cave for sleep-deprived university students. Currently it's littered with red paper hearts and streams of crepe paper taped to the ceiling. There's quite a handful of participants in the room, and though they don't all look bad, Crowley's finding himself growing more eager to just get himself to bed. To sleep, obviously. 

The host, a girl with green streaks in her hair, steps up on the platform and speaks into the mic to welcome them. Crowley has perched himself up on one of the stools by the window while she breezes through the opening remarks. Then it's time for the main event. Another college-aged girl starts going around to hand each of them a lanyard. Crowley looks curiously down at his own, where the hook at the end is attached to some sort of lock. He raises a skeptic brow and places the lanyard around his neck, shrugging.

The rules go as follows: Each participant has been given either a lock or a key, and they are all given a certain amount of time to go about the room to find the person whose key will match with their lock, or vice versa. Seems simple enough. It's not as embarrassing as Crowley initially feared. He scans the room, looking over the other participants. The only thing he can hope for now is that his partner doesn't turn out to be some flashy blockhead. Or worse, anything like his ex.

And that's when he sees a familiar head of ridiculously fluffy white hair.

Crowley almost scrubs his eyes just to confirm what he's seeing. He settles for a bout of incredulous staring instead. 

It's just like in the films, when person A spots person B from across the room and suddenly the camera focus shifts, and person B is all person A can see and everything else fades to blurry shit, rendered irrelevant. That's sort of how it is every single time Crowley is lucky enough to cross paths with Aziraphale.

Not that there have been many of those over the past two years. As one of the more prolific authors for Crowley's workplace, Aziraphale has been in several meetings where Crowley was also present. Crowley also headed a few projects to promote a couple of his books. Historical fiction, mostly. Romance ones too. Crowley has known him from the days he was still a bumbling first-time published author who didn't even know how to ask for coffee.

He's also incredibly gorgeous. But you know, that's neither here nor there. Crowley was too deep in his own shit to notice it at first, and by the time his cold-blooded reptilian brain caught up to the fact that he would very much enjoy taking the sexy and interesting author out to dinner, Aziraphale has gotten himself a boyfriend. A professor type, of course, just to further rub it in that even if Crowley had somehow managed to ask him out while he still had the chance, there was no way in hell that Aziraphale would be interested in going out with _him._

Before Crowley can look away, Aziraphale turns his head and catches his eye.

His angelic face breaks out into a huge, radiant beam. Crowley tries very hard to keep his breathing normal as Aziraphale brings up an elegant hand and eagerly waves at him from the other side of the room, mouthing: _'Oh, hi!'_

Crowley tells himself to keep his cool, nod his head nonchalantly. He has a reputation to maintain.

He gives a dopey smile and waves back.

"What're you doing here, angel?" he mutters, then mentally kicks himself. _He can't hear you, idiot._

Aziraphale looks as if he's about to reply, but he's interrupted by another man who approaches him, pointing at the blue lanyard strip around his neck. Aziraphale looks away and just like that, the moment is broken, the blurry edges of the scene receding.

Right. The _thing_ they're doing. The thing he came here for. It's starting _now._

Crowley's approached by a couple other guys as well, trying their keys on his lock with not much luck. He doesn't respond to their attempts at small talk, though he does give them a consoling grin. The entire time, he keeps glancing across the room, tracking the head of fluffy white hair.

It's ten minutes into the game when he starts to notice that the head of fluffy white hair has been steadily approaching him.

They're about three feet apart when Crowley gets close enough to note that Aziraphale has a key around his neck.

And he is coming closer.

"How funny that we should meet here of all places," Aziraphale says once they're finally, _finally_ within earshot. 

Crowley all but pulls himself away from the bloke who's barely had a chance to put his key in and turns to face Aziraphale, grinning casually.

"I should be the one telling _you_ that," he replies, nodding when Aziraphale holds up his key, in a silent request to try it out on Crowley's lock. "This is _singles_ night, you know."

"Of course I'm aware of that." Aziraphale rolls his stormy grey eyes. "I am, in fact, unattached. Now."

Crowley's breath catches in his throat. "Sorry to hear it didn't work out with..."

Aziraphale shakes his head, chuckling as he reaches for the lock hanging on Crowley's chest, taking it in a firm grip. "Oh, don't be, my dear. The relationship has been stale for some time now. I am quite relieved that he ended things before it got truly ugly."

Crowley tries to keep his cool, tries not to go around in mental circles over 'my dear'. "Glad to hear it, then," he says, then blushes outright. _Way to be obvious._ Aziraphale looks to be deep in concentration on Crowley's lock, and it dawns on him that they don't have much time. Desperate to keep the conversation going, Crowley blurts out the first thing that pops into his head. "Haven't congratulated you, by the way. What's it like, being number one bestselling author, A.Z. Fell?"

Aziraphale groans. "You know as well as I that that accomplishment hardly means anything." This earns a hearty chuckle out of Crowley. "But it's done. I've done what they wanted me to do and now I am free to proceed with my passion projects."

Aziraphale got signed into the publisher to write historical romance, mostly to do with Jane Austen's works. He came onboard with a truckload of ideas. He's had moderate success with spinoffs of Persuasion and Sense and Sensibility, but he's only truly become famous with his recent work.

Crowley was tasked to promote it. Something the publisher pressured Aziraphale into writing to ride on the cash-grab rising trend of raunchy novels with Byronic male leads. _'The Shades of Pemberley',_ made to be a sequel to Pride and Prejudice, offers a darker, more intimate look into Mr Darcy through the eyes of his bright young wife Elizabeth Bennet. It follows them through the stages of exploring the Regency marriage bed in _all_ sorts of ways. In between breaks to the water cooler, Aziraphale has ranted to Crowley twelve times about how it devolves Elizabeth Bennet into a _'Mary Sue',_ and some other things Crowley doesn't quite understand but is content to listen to anyway. Aziraphale has a very compelling voice. He's a natural-born storyteller, in various forms.

Which is why it isn't a surprise that even with the trashy erotica, critics and audiences alike went into raptures over the book. Every blog, newspaper, and magazine lauded A.Z. Fell for fleshing out Mr Darcy beyond just the textbook brooding hero. For showing the softness, the vulnerability that lay beneath the haughty veneer. For displaying the awkwardness that is often mistaken for arrogance, and how underneath his rough exterior there's only a man wholly and hopelessly devoted to Elizabeth, and who is willing to do anything to make her happy.

"What's next for you?" Crowley asks him as Aziraphale turns the key into his lock. It doesn't budge.

Well. It's not like Crowley had high hopes for tonight. But he's already dreading having to part from Aziraphale.

Aziraphale lets go of his key, still attached to Crowley's lock, and grins excitedly. "I have had enough of the spinoffs and the sequels. It's already been explored through and through by so many others."

"What else is there to do, then?"

Crowley can tell by the spark in his eye that Aziraphale's about to tell him something he's particularly proud of.

Aziraphale bites on his lip, and Crowley desperately tries not to melt at the adorable sight. A monstrous feat of human activity if there ever was one. 

"If you must know, I'm moving onto Austen's unfinished works. Right now I'm just about to submit a completion of _The Watsons."_

"That sounds really great." Crowley isn't a huge fan of classical literature, but he actually means it. Aziraphale looks skeptical, and he hurries to add: "No, really. I can't wait to check it out."

"That's assuming it somehow goes through with my editor."

“You've held up your end of the bargain, bathing them in big money now. I'm pretty sure they'll let you do anything you want. You just need to be firm about it."

The glum look fades away from his expression. He smiles hopefully, eyelashes fluttering as he looks up at Crowley. "Oh, you think so?"

"Ngk." Crowley's heart skips an actual beat. "Y-yeah. I've seen it happen with the other writers. You'll be fine."

"That really means so much to me, my dear." 

His voice is so soft and tender. Crowley really doesn't want this conversation to end, but they've already taken up quite a bit of time. Aziraphale seems to come to the same conclusion, and he returns to take hold of his key.

"Well, I suppose I should..."

He tugs on the key.

Once again, it doesn't budge.

"That’s odd. Wait a moment, dear." He tries again. Then two times more.

Crowley's mouth hangs open, glaring forcefully at the cheap lock that still has the key in. Aziraphale takes a step closer, putting in more of his strength and Crowley's heart launches into overdrive when he catches a whiff of his perfume and suddenly the room is way too crowded. Way too warm. He blinks rapidly, losing his mind just a fraction more when Aziraphale's hair tickles his jaw.

"Oh my... It seems we are quite stuck."

"Huh." The scent of Aziraphale's perfume stings his nose before it fades away, leaving behind a trace of something metallic. 

"Do you think we ought to ask for help?" Aziraphale looks up at him again. His eyes go shockingly wide. "Crowley--oh. Oh, goodness!"

"What is it? S’wrong?" Crowley's reptilian brain is still attempting to process everything that's happening when he feels a trickle of liquid on his upper lip and he jumps a half-step back, brushing it off with his hand. It comes off with a red stain. _"Shit."_

_Why me? Why NOW?_

  
  


\-----♡-----

Of course, from here, things just had to go south. 

Crowley tries to keep his calm, considering the circumstances. He really does. But with the phantom sensation of having Aziraphale stand so close to him—his curls brushing against his chin, the fresh yet musky scent of his perfume—how could he have ever survived?

 _Oh shit_ , he thinks, _ohshitohshitohshit._

For a moment, he contemplates making a run for it. If this happened with a stranger, he might have. He would have bolted straight for the hills, never to go near this part of town again. That plan would not work out in this situation though, not with how they’re basically work colleagues and will inevitably end up crossing paths again sometime in the future. 

(Yet a soft, annoying little voice in the back of his head points out that this probably happened _because_ it’s Aziraphale. A prime example of psychosomatic bullshit. Leave it to his little crush to ruin things at the most inopportune time and make him look like an idiot in front of the smartest man he knows.)

_Stupid speed dating event, stupid cheap lock and key set._

_Stupid me._

“Dear, are you alright?” Aziraphale asks, brows creased in worry. He lets go of the jammed key and rests his hand firmly against Crowley’s chest to keep him steady on his feet. It does a good job of snapping him out of his crisis just as much as it reminds him that the blond is literally only a scant inch away. “

“M’fine, angel,” Crowley says flippantly. He digs into his pocket, frowning when he realises that he forgot his handkerchief in the car.

Aziraphale, being the angel he is, steps even closer and hands him his own. “Here. And, uhm, perhaps it’ll be best if we move away from the crowd.”

He accepts the piece of cloth sheepishly and presses it over his nostrils. “Thanks. And yeah, that might be for the best,” he replies, pinching the bridge of his nose with his other hand to hopefully reduce the blood flow. “The bar’s over in that corner. How ‘bout I buy you a drink and we forget this disaster ever happened?”

Despite his evident concern, an amused smile slowly forms on his lips. Aziraphale’s shoulders shake with mirth and he nods, reaching over to touch his elbow and gently squeeze it. A gesture to reassure him or to signify his interest, Crowley isn’t so sure. “That sounds lovely, actually. Lead the way?”

It takes some fumbling (as they are still very much attached to each other), but they finally make it out of the throng of people and over to the other side of the room unscathed.

The makeshift bar, so to speak, consists of a high wooden table covered in white silk fabric with a variety of beers and hard liquor placed on top. A solitary vase with a bouquet of pink roses rests in the middle of the setup to complete the obnoxious Valentine’s aesthetic. 

Aziraphale gets a Tequila Sunrise while Crowley opts to forego alcohol and asks for a bottle of water instead. The last thing he wants to do is aggravate the nosebleed any further. They move to a more secluded area of the cafe, away from the noisy crowd and the event host’s line of vision. At this point, Crowley pays the game no mind. He’d much rather spend the rest of the evening here, standing by this wall as the angel tells him about all the boring and awkward encounters he’s had here before they finally crossed paths again. 

(“Lucky I was in the area,” Crowley muses, leaning in. Their jammed lock and key set serves as a good enough excuse.

He watches as Aziraphale gazes up at him through his lashes, a hint of a smile on his lips as he takes a sip of his drink. “Well, then. I suppose I am.”)

Aziraphale can talk about any topic and Crowley would happily listen. He's known this from the first time they've ever spoken, back when he was still a budding young writer who had just graced the halls of Eden Publishing for the first time. Nervous thing he was, but had tons of potential. He went up to Crowley with an exhaustive rant about the importance of the oxford comma, and Crowley just stood there, hooked onto the impromptu podcast he suddenly found most riveting.

“Can I ask you something?” Aziraphale asks after a while, apropos to nothing.

 _Uh oh._ “Yep, of course. What is it?”

“Why do you call me angel sometimes?”

Crowley blinks rapidly, his brain scrambling for a good excuse after being put on the spot like that. In all honesty, he isn't quite sure when he first used the nickname on him. Though it was possibly during a Christmas party at work two years ago, when he was piss drunk and had zero impulse control. An embarrassing night that he pretty much filed to the back of his mind.

“It’s ‘cause you look like one,” he admits in what he hopes is a casual tone, gesturing a hand vaguely in the air. “With the curls, and that smile of yours. You act like one too. Always looks like you’re up to… uh, good, y’know?”

Aziraphale seems to fluster at that. Like it’s the first time anyone has ever given him a compliment, even though Crowley knows with absolute certainty that most colleagues from their departments combined would revel in even a sliver of his attention. “You’re an expert at sweet talk, I see.” 

“Nah,” Crowley mumbles with a shrug, his mouth already curling into a satisfied smirk. “Just telling you the honest-to-god truth.”

“Have you always felt this way?”

“Um, _well_. Is it too much? I could stop, really.” 

“No, no - I don’t have a problem with it!” Aziraphale insists, moving a hand down to touch his forearm. Crowley’s heart stutters quickly in his chest. “You can continue this. All of this, if you’d like.”

Crowley knows his ears are tinged red, that his cheeks are flushed, and that his attraction may be a little too obvious for his liking right now. He finds himself unable to do anything about that, though. In the same way he's unable to look away from the angel.

“Ngh,” he says, for lack of a better response. He didn’t expect the night to turn around like this at all. Then he quickly adds, “Wanna… go out with me sometime, angel? A proper date.”

Aziraphale softens, eyes brightening up as he gives a shy nod. “I’d like that very much, my dear.”

“Fantastic,” Crowley beams. He props himself up against the wall, feeling a little weak in the knees (unsure if it’s because of the loss of blood or all thanks to the man in front of him— perhaps both.) 

For a split second, they just look at each other. Crowley lets himself savour in this moment of having Aziraphale so close, so _dangerously_ close to him. The golden light of the shop casts over the angel’s face like a ray of divine light; he looks as stunningly beautiful as ever. 

It does a good job of distracting him, so much so that he only notices after that Aziraphale reaches over to take hold of his lanyard. 

Crowley gulps, trying to process whatever the other has in mind. Yet he can’t seem to figure it out, his thoughts entirely preoccupied with the way the angel’s knuckles seem to linger over his chest. 

He licks his lips and rasps a low, “‘Ziraphale?”

Aziraphale blinks out of it and shakes his head, offering a light laugh. He doesn’t let go of the lanyard though, his thumb stroking the cord absentmindedly. “Oh, goodness. Must be the alcohol,” he mutters. “I suppose the event will be over soon. We should take these off and inform the organisers it got stuck.”

“Quite right,” Crowley replies, still caught in a daze. Aziraphale lets go of the lanyard and takes a slight step back, needing a bit of space to sober up. “Can’t believe we didn’t think about removing them earlier.”

“I realised it after we ordered our drinks. I just - I couldn’t find a good enough reason to bring it up,” he confesses, smiling sheepishly.

 _Oh._ Crowley grins from ear to ear. “S’alright, I like being near you,” he replies smoothly, hiding his satisfaction when he sees the other man blush. With the event now completely forgotten, he removes the strap from around his neck, and tips his head toward the exit. “Lift home?”

Aziraphale chuckles, slipping his own lanyard off and eyeing him playfully. “Only if you drive at a respectable speed, dear boy. I’ve heard enough stories about your joy rides and speeding tickets to be apprehensive.”

Crowley gets hit with an almost irresistible urge to pin the angel against the wall and kiss him. But he doesn't give in, not just yet. “Pft. It’s a deal.”

\-----♡-----

**A.Z. Fell** <[aziraphale.fell@edenpublishing.com](mailto:aziraphale.fell@gmail.com)>   
to me ▼

Dear Crowley,

Good day! I greatly enjoyed spending the evening with you. You were wonderful company, as always, and I look forward to whatever you have planned.

Here is my mobile phone number for your perusal: 07911 726333. Do get back to me when you can. Hoping to hear from you soon.

Sincerely,

Aziraphale Fell  
_Senior Writer_  
_Eden Publishing House, Inc._

\-----♡-----

Crowley never thought he'd see the day that he'll be gushing over a bloody _email._ Yet all current circumstances point towards the contrary. He has 1,308 un-archived email messages in the several years he's been in this job. Of them, 1,307 are relays of setting up lousy meetings, corporate events newsletters, complaints from arsehole clients, advertisements to a certain brand of disinfectant, and a handful of messages addressed to a "Mx. AJ Cowwley" that always get misdirected to himself.

Exactly one of them has Aziraphale Fell's phone number.

It's nearing midnight and Crowley still can't find it in himself to get some shut-eye, a Herculean feat for someone with his reptilian disposition. Instead, he's propped up on his silk-covered pillows, one hand on his phone (still opened on the email sent approximately eighteen minutes ago) while a snakelike grin covers his face.

 _'For your perusal'. 'Hoping to hear from you soon'._ Jesus. No one should be allowed to be that ridiculous. 

_Ridiculously adorable,_ amends his widely awake lizard brain. Yeah, fine. He'll be the first to admit that he's held a bit of a torch for the white-haired angel he only ever got to talk to during odd breaks by the water cooler, but he never expected anything to actually come out of it. And he especially wasn't expecting to see him in that speed dating event that he very nearly passed on.

It almost feels like the strings of fate, while currently running in his favour, are being tetchy, like they're balled up into yarn and are tossed from a cat's one paw to the other. The universe is rarely so good to him, so how else is he supposed to act? He took that leap. _'Lucky I was in the area'_ _—_ he scoffs. That wasn't even the least bit subtle. He's always been an initiator, gleaning what he can from a situation and hoping for the best, pushing his luck when it seems to be doing something not _too_ horrible. So _obviously_ he's going to text Aziraphale. What else would you do with a gorgeous angel's phone number? Crowley isn't an idiot.

Best to start off simple.

[Me]  
**Hey**

The reply comes a mere minute and a half after he hit 'sent'. Modest.

[Aziraphale]  
**_Who is this?_ **

[Me]  
**Wonderful company**  
**Your words, not mine**

[Aziraphale]  
**_Your being enigmatic isn't_ **  
**_earning you any points here._ **

[Me]  
**Angel.**

This time, a whole two minutes passes by before he receives a reply.

[Aziraphale]  
**_Wiley serpent._ **

[Me]  
**Oh, is that what I am now?**

[Aziraphale]  
**_You do have that tattoo_ **  
**_on the side of your face._ **

[Me]  
**You must be fun at parties**

[Aziraphale]  
**_Indeed I am. You very much_ **  
**_seemed to enjoy me a while ago._ **

Crowley's brows climb straight up his forehead.

He is also decidedly _not_ blushing. It would take a lot to get him to fluster at a text message. But if that's how the angel wants to play, he definitely won't allow himself to lose.

[Me]  
**Was just doing a good deed**  
**After you specifically**  
**sought me out and all**

**_..._ **  
**_..._ **

So maybe Crowley is a _little_ bit nervous.

[Aziraphale]  
**_Oh, yes. My hero._ **  
**_Saving me from that dull professor_ **  
**_who wouldn't give up on my key,_ **  
**_and his self-absorbed rant on_ **  
**_the insulating capabilities of soils._ **

[Me]  
**Sounds like your dream guy tho**  
**Isnt your ex a professor too?**

[Aziraphale]  
**_Keyword: 'ex'._ **

[Me]  
**Ah, right**  
**Sorry that didnt work out btw**  
**Im sure your Mr Darcy's**  
**just around the corner**

[Aziraphale]  
**_Do NOT even go there._ **

[Me]  
**Ready to be summoned**  
**through some demonic circle**  
**Or by typing up a draft of**  
**'The Darker Shades of Pemberley'**

[Aziraphale]  
**_You are a most despicable serpent!_ **

[Me]  
**A despicable serpent**  
**you gave your number to ;)**

[Aziraphale]  
**_Good Lord, what have I done?_ **

[Me]  
**Honestly? Made my day**  
**Thanks for tonight :)**

 **...**  
**...**  
**...**  
[Aziraphale]  
**_You made my day, too. I was_ **  
**_very relieved to see you._ **

[Me]  
**Its really late. Shouldnt you be sleeping?**

[Aziraphale]  
**_Shouldn't YOU be sleeping?_ **

[Me]  
**I'm a serpent. I'm either**  
**hyped up on caffeine**  
**for 48 hrs straight**  
**or asleep for a century**

[Aziraphale]  
**_I should leave you to hibernate then._ **

[Me]  
**Probably for the best**

[Aziraphale]  
**_Not for too long, though._ **  
**_You still owe me that date._ **

[Me]  
**Yeah ofc. Feel free to**  
**wake me up anytime x**

 **...**  
**...**  
[Aziraphale]  
**_Perhaps I should start up a file_ **  
**_on The Darker Shades of Pemberley_ **

[Me]  
**You should read it to me sometime**  
**No srsly I'll listen**  
**You make Mr Darcy sound so sexy**

[Aziraphale]  
**_...My dear, that was a joke._ **  
**_And excuse you, Mr Darcy is UNIVERSALLY sexy!_ **

[Me]  
**Meh, it really depends on who you ask**

[Aziraphale]  
**_Mr Darcy is the definition of sexy._ **  
**_Oh, what am I doing? I shouldn't be_ **  
**_talking about this with you of all people._ **

**…**  
[Me]  
**Whats that spose to mean?**

[Aziraphale]  
**_It means we ought to get some sleep._ **  
**_Good night. X_ **

[Me]  
**Is that all Im getting then?**  
**Fine, talk to you soon**  
**This isnt over**  
**Good night, angel x**

  
  


\-----♡-----

In Crowley’s professional opinion, context is key in figuring out what marketing strategies will garner the best results. For the most part, the time he spends brainstorming with his team, scribbling ideas on the white board, is when he feels most in his element. Nevertheless, the Great Seduction of A.Z. Fell is an entirely different ball game altogether.

For starters, he didn’t think he’d get this chance in the first place. He thought he was lightyears away from what he assumed was Aziraphale’s type. Crowley may very well be the antithesis of whatever that may be, in wardrobe, and interests, and overall demeanor. The angel’s ex is a university professor teaching the Classics after all. At the onset, the idea of the angel being interested in him seemed too out there. Too rogue. Not something Aziraphale would do in six thousand years. 

Thank _someone_ he was wrong. 

Now, Crowley’s mind is filled to the brim with ideas on how to sweep Aziraphale off his feet and into his waiting, willing arms. And he fully intends on reaping the rewards.

The first day of the week brings with it a new set of deadlines to meet. Texting the angel easily becomes a welcome distraction from the corporate leeches he needs to deal with on a regular basis. Unfortunately, the piles of workload means that they won’t be able to schedule their date anytime soon. Which is… less than ideal. It is nice chatting with him throughout the day, though. His only respite in an otherwise hellish environment.

[Aziraphale]  
**_Save me._ **

[Me]  
**What happened, angel?**

[Aziraphale]  
**_I have a meeting with Gabriel._ **  
**_It’s in a few minutes and_ **  
**_I’m already dreading it._ **

[Me]  
**O fuck.**

[Aziraphale]  
**_Quite. I am certain_ **  
**_he’ll be giving me all his_ **  
**_horrible opinions on what_ **  
**_will sell best next time._ **

[Me]  
**Really sorry you have**  
**to go through that..urgh**

Crowley frowns. He knows all about Gabriel, Sales Manager and self-righteous prick. He can vividly remember the first time that man walked into his department’s office space, all pompous energy and condescending smiles before their first meeting together. Aziraphale has it worse, though. He’s required to be in constant communication with the tosser to ensure the success of whatever he will write next, or so they say. 

[Me]  
**What if we just play hooky?**  
**Meet me up front**  
**We ride at midnight**

[Aziraphale]  
**_So wiley of you, my dear._ **  
**_Unfortunately, I can’t_ **  
**_miss this meeting._ **

[Me]  
**What a pity.**

[Aziraphale]  
**_Try tempting me again next time. X_ **

[Me]  
**Oh sweetheart, if I were trying**  
**to tempt you, you’d know ;)**

\-----♡-----

The angel, he figures out, is full of surprises. In more ways than one. In the span of two weeks, Aziraphale has ramped up his affections threefold. Crowley isn’t complaining, though. He never thought he'd be the recipient of Aziraphale's shameless flirtations, but by god does he want to indulge. He wants to relish in it in the same way he wants to pamper the angel to no end. 

It's honestly refreshing, how organically their relationship has developed. While they've been colleagues and work friends for a while now, there was an obvious boundary they never crossed. Now, they’ve settled into a routine that seems so natural, as if they've been doing this for ages. 

[Aziraphale]  
**_You should check your desk._ **

[Me]  
**Why?**  
**Did you leave anything**  
**for me, angel?**

[Aziraphale]  
**_Perhaps. A blessing for_ **  
**_your meeting later._ **  
**_And thank you for_ **  
**_the coffee this morning. :)_ **

Sure enough, on his desk he finds a sheer pouch filled with a handful of Hershey’s Kisses and a sticky note with the words _“Angel Kisses for good luck! X”_ written by the angel himself.

The fact that Aziraphale remembered he has a big meeting today. The fact that he had noticed...

[Me]  
**Thank you, Aziraphale.**  
**SHIT I can’t stop smiling**  
**you’re so goddamn adorable**

[Aziraphale]  
**_I’m so relieved you like it!_ **  
**_Oh, hush. There’s your flattery again._ **

[Me]  
**Mnot flattering you.**  
**If the meeting goes well,**  
**lets dine at the Ritz**

[Aziraphale]  
**_OH? Then get a wiggle_ **  
**_on, my dear! I'm_ **  
**_counting on you._ **

[Me]  
**Wouldnt dare let**  
**you down, angel !!**

  
  


\-----♡-----

By the time the next weekend rolls around, Crowley has managed to finish at least three-fourths of his workload. He’s completed his backlog, at the very least, and can already estimate how much longer it will take to accomplish everything on his task list. 

Ah yes, sweet freedom. He can almost taste it. 

At 11:15 in the evening, he’s still awake, lying in bed with hands folded on his chest. Some nights are like this, when his brain is still working while the rest of his body already wants to shut down. He's not even thinking about anything in particular, just letting ideas run through his mind in a way that is too quick to process.

With a sigh, Crowley grabs his phone from the nightstand and, on pure impulse, presses the text app. 

[Me]  
**ASDHFJSK**  
**Bugger**

[Aziraphale]  
**_Oh goodness, is anything wrong?_ **

[Me]  
**Just tired. Got home late tonight**  
**Now I cant seem to sleep just yet**

[Aziraphale]  
**_Perhaps a little chat will help?_ **  
**_Please rest up soon, dear boy._ **

[Me]  
**Mmmhyeah that should help.**  
**Talking to you helps, most times**

[Aziraphale]  
**_Crowley…_ **  
**_I feel the same way._ **

[Me]  
**Oh. Oh, good.**

  
  


[Aziraphale]  
**_Oh, don’t sound so surprised._ **  
**_I love talking to you..._ **  
**_And I wish we could go on_ **  
**_that date already, truly._ **

[Me]  
**What if we just run away?**  
**Maybe to the South Downs,**  
**or fuckin… Alpha Centauri**  
**Then, we go on ALL the dates**

[Aziraphale]  
**_If only that were possible..._ **  
**_But it’ll be over in a jiffy!_ **  
**_Then we’ll find the time._ **

Crowley is finally drowsing on the edge of sleep, fingers typing out words before his mind can catch up with him. If he were fully awake, perhaps he wouldn’t have admitted it so easily. However, that isn’t the case anymore. 

He closes his eyes and yawns, thumb brushing over the send button right before passing out. 

[Me]  
**Yeah...**  
**I miss you.**

 **...**  
**...**  
[Aziraphale]  
**_Oh, dearest._ **  
**_Are you certain that isn’t just_ **  
**_the exhaustion talking?_ **

\-----♡-----

The thing about utterly humiliating moments is that they only become truly mortifying in hindsight. Onset times vary across the board, but in the heat of the moment, you never actually feel anything. For that one sliver of time, which can stretch on from little over a millisecond to half a human lifespan, you're practically invincible. You don't know that you've done anything wrong. And within that moment, everything is A-okay and 'tickety-boo' and all is well and you get to move on.

But that moment is never meant to last forever. For Crowley, it lasts approximately the exact five hours and twenty-eight minutes that he gets to spend in deep unconsciousness, right up until his phone alarm blares and he dismisses it with a furious thumb swipe.

And that's when he sees the one unread message from Aziraphale. By extension, he sees his own last sent message as well. 

"Fuck!"

He shoots up from the straining confines of his bedcovers, his limbs flailing over silk until he inches over the edge and lands on the floor on his backside.

Sure he's had his fair share of idiotic moments, but what in hell's name possessed him to send Aziraphale _that?_

His head falls into his hands, scrubbing off what is already fast becoming a migraine. Nothing possessed him, of course. He only wanted to tell the truth.

And, well. Things have been going pretty decently with his plan to woo the illustrious erotica author. Much better than he dared to hope, really. He never thought he'd even get this far. But of course, his idiotic reptilian (should he still call it lizard? Or a snake now since that's what Aziraphale's been calling him?) brain had to get cocky. Push his luck a smidge too far. Go too fast that he ended up pushing Aziraphale farther back.

 _'I miss you'._ Seriously, what the _fuck_ was that?

He briefly considers sending another text attempting to save face, but decides against it. It's just like him to muck up the few extremely good things he has going on.

That last message was a tad too intense, he thinks while he's in the shower, where his thoughts achieve a full 0.2% greater clarity. Judging by his flippant response, Aziraphale must've thought so too. He needs to take some time to cool it down, set it back apace. Then resume with a smooth renewal after everything's gone and settled.

The beauty of it all is that he doesn't have to worry about seeing Aziraphale in person. In the week it's been since that speed dating event, Crowley has only ever seen slivers of Aziraphale around the office. There never was a reason for them to cross paths that much, even before. They work on separate floors and are only sometimes involved in the same meetings. Recently, Crowley has been finding it immensely difficult not to fantasise about swinging by Aziraphale's corner of the building to invite him to dinner and wait by the door as the cherubic man gathers his jacket and crosses over the room with a bounce in his step, as he leans in to kiss Crowley on the cheek. Though Crowley did manage to bring him coffee once, Aziraphale was already on his way to a meeting with his editor, and they only got to talk for a few seconds.

But then, he must've really pissed off the luck-granting gods. He arrives at the building and boards the lift on the ground floor, and just as the doors are about to shut, a hand appears over the grey metal, halting their movement and splitting them apart. 

"Oh! Goodness. I made it."

Crowley is met by a pair of stunning blue-grey eyes. A head of fluffy white curls. 

He shuffles to the side to get at the control panel. Crowley's blocking the control panel.

Aziraphale lifts his head, opening his mouth to speak, and suddenly they're looking face to face, closer than they've been since that party. 

His bright, beautifully angelic face splits into a wide beam that lights up his entire countenance and Crowley wonders how far off he is from going into cardiac arrest.

"Crowley," he says in a near-whisper, just as the doors swing shut.

"Ngh. An-Aziraphale. Hey. _Hi."_ The ground rumbles beneath Crowley's snakeskin faux leather shoes, slides away from him like he's standing on a pool of jelly. A flicker of concern shoots up his chest as he glances down until it occurs to him that they're just _moving._ Because that's what lifts are supposed to _do._

"I am ever so glad to see you, dear boy."

_Please don't mention the weird text. Please don't mention the weird text._

"It's good to see you too."

They stand a respectable distance apart, arms kept at an equally respectable position by their sides, and mercifully Aziraphale doesn't say anything. Crowley takes a deep breath. Aziraphale gets off at the tenth and he at the twelfth. High-rise buildings like this have lightning fast lifts. He can survive it, surely.

The lift rumbles to a stop at the fourth, releasing the two other occupants from the confined space. No one else gets on, and the doors swing shut once again, leaving Crowley and Aziraphale _alone_ in the said confined space. 

Crowley ignores the prickle of heat at the back of his neck, where a thin layer of sweat must be forming.

Aziraphale breaks the silence.

"Have you gotten a good night's sleep?" He asks, his tone almost shy. It takes Crowley aback, wondering why Aziraphale has any reason to act apprehensive around him and whether it has anything to do with the weird text that neither of them should really be mentioning. "You just seemed very tired last night."

"Yeah, I suppose I did," Crowley returns, keeping his casual tone. "Just slept it off. M'fine now, don't worry about it."

He risks a glance at Aziraphale and sees red tainting his plump cheeks. He refuses to meet Crowley's eyes, choosing instead to look at his neck.

"I am glad to hear it." A lingering soft smile plays on his lips, and he shifts forward, one hand reaching out to hover on Crowley's lapel. Crowley takes in a sharp breath, his chest puffing as Aziraphale's fingers tuck underneath the black fabric, smoothing it down with his thumb almost fondly. Crowley hears his heart thudding, about to crack his ribs as he glances down at a worried furrow in between Aziraphale's brows. "I do hope they haven't been overworking you, dearest."

"Could..." Crowley swallows audibly. "Could say the same to you. Hope you've been taking care of yourself, angel."

Aziraphale lets out an adorable chiming laugh, a gleam in his eye while his hand on Crowley's blazer shifts to a palm pressed over his chest, stilling there. Crowley swears his lashes flutter in slow-motion.

"I'm being well taken care of, I assure you." He gives a meaningful look at Crowley, still smiling.

Crowley's face floods with warmth as he goes for a toothy grin that hopefully doesn't look too dopey. Aziraphale returns the look with an even wider smile. Then his eyes dart off to the side and he retracts his touch.

"Dear, silly me. I've forgotten to press the button for my floor." He takes half a step forward to get at the control panel, pressing the number '10'. The borders refuse to light up, so he tries again. It takes a few seconds of trying before it does light up. Aziraphale sighs in relief. "Ah! There we go."

The lift slows down without prompting, shaking the metal box along before it rattles to a complete stop. Crowley and Aziraphale exchange worried looks.

"Aziraphale. Did you do something?"

The blond shakes his head, speaking slowly. "No, this is quite singular to me as well."

"Singular," utters Crowley, waiting to see if the lift will move again.

Half a minute passes in complete silence before they are forced to accept that the lift has no plans to move anytime soon.

"I am afraid, my dear, that we are quite stuck."

"Again."

"Yes. _Again."_

"Suppose you should phone the lobby."

"I should— _oh,_ yes. Yes, I should." 

They stare at each other for a few seconds until Aziraphale ducks his head, moving to lift the emergency phone off the cradle. 

Crowley retrieves his phone from his pocket while Aziraphale prattles into the receiver. The screen lights up with the current time in annoyingly large numbers. Fuck. Crowley's gonna be late for his appointment.

"Yes, so you see... There are two of us in here... Let me check, just a moment." Aziraphale takes a moment to peer up at the digital screen. "We are somewhere between the sixth and seventh floors, I believe... Yes... Well, do hurry on as quickly as you can. And thank you." Aziraphale drops the phone.

"Well?" Crowley asks.

Aziraphale sighs. "They're not quite sure what's wrong. The power hasn't been cut off anywhere. They'll be sending over some people to look into it and get it moving again."

"And how long's that gonna take?"

Aziraphale shrugs.

Crowley rakes a hand through his hair. "Fuck."

"I am sure it will only take a moment." Aziraphale smiles nervously, reaching out a hand to grab Crowley's bicep. "Dearest, I apologise."

Crowley keeps himself very still. Enthusiastic text messages he can easily deal with, but he doesn't quite know what to do with Aziraphale all of a sudden _touching_ him any chance he gets, the 'dearest' used to refer to him now formed by a beautiful pair of moving lips instead of six distinguished members of the English alphabet. 

He tries for an offhand grin, keeping his voice level even as his heart picks up in speed. In the small space, he gets an untainted whiff of Aziraphale's cologne.

"It isn't your fault, angel," he says in resignation. "But we might be here a while. Hope that doesn't bother you."

Aziraphale looks straight at him, his eyes widening. "Why would that bother me?" His cheeks turning a delicate shade of pink, he mumbles, "On the contrary, I am in no small part thrilled by this turn of events."

Crowley has to turn that over in his mind a few times before it fully registers. His grin turns confident, and he swings off to the side to lean on the reflective back wall of the lift, his legs crossed at the ankles. He takes off his sunglasses and tucks them into the pocket of his coat.

Because he isn't the only one who sent a daring text message the previous night.

"Let's do it," he says, smirking at the increasing confusion on Aziraphale's face, the slight twitch in his soft smile. God damn, he's gorgeous.

"Do what?"

"Go on a date. You with me. Me with you." He gives a half-shrug with his shoulder and pats the empty wall space beside him. "We've been trying to find time for so long and I finally have you alone, angel."

A pleasant flush spreads over Aziraphale's face, slowly walking closer to him. "Oh, my dear. But this is—"

"Weird? Spontaneous? A dumb idea?"

"Fleeting," Aziraphale cuts in. He settles on the wall beside Crowley, their sides pressed together. "Not nearly enough time to satisfy me."

Crowley's grin grows even wider and he's certain now that it's definitely dopey. "Then I guess you'll just have to agree to a second date."

Aziraphale presses his lips together, the corners tugging up, and truthfully Crowley has never seen a more adorable sight.

Screw whatever deity he may piss off today. Crowley's not letting this opportunity pass him by.

"Might need to reserve you for a third date as well," he adds, nudging Aziraphale with his shoulder. Their hands brush in the process, the barest of touches, but it sends sparks shooting all over his arm. "And a fourth. And a fifth, assuming you won't want to get rid of me then."

Aziraphale lights up beautifully, his features relaxing as he gazes at Crowley. "Now why would I want to do that?" His fingers bump into Crowley's, resting beside their hips. Crowley reaches out with his pinky, an involuntary twitch at first, a deliberate movement the next. His long pinky hitches at the edge of Aziraphale's palm, closing in on warm skin.

Aziraphale's hand curls over his finger, their knuckles pressing firmly. 

"Crowley, if I had wanted to drive you away, I would have done so by now," he says, his chin brushing over the point of Crowley's shoulder. "Now, what shall we do on our first official date?"

Crowley takes a moment to gather his breath, his brain still stuck on the warmth of Aziraphale's hand around his finger. A warm feeling settles on his chest.

"We should get to know each other, I think. Just talk."

Aziraphale rests his cheek just below Crowley's shoulder, peering up sideways to his face, and Crowley silently marvels at how perfect his own height advantage is for a sight this beautiful. "What would you like to know?"

They spend the next several minutes asking each other random questions, shooting replies at rapid-fire pace, both uncertain how much more time they have. They cover the bases. Former schools. Former jobs. Former partners. Favourite films. Favourite restaurants. Favourite music (a point of contention. Crowley vows not to bring this up again for _at least_ the next three dates). And soon Crowley's hand is wrapped entirely around Aziraphale's palm before the latter shifts a little to lace their fingers and give it a confident squeeze.

"What are your biggest fears?" Crowley asks.

Aziraphale gazes down at his shoes. "I am, uh, actually very claustrophobic."

Crowley's grin dissipates as his eyes dart around the lift. "Shit. Angel, why didn't you say anything? This can't be good for you—"

"Dearest, no," Aziraphale hurries to reassure. "No. Actually, I was expecting to panic a while ago, but nothing happened. I think it's because my happiness at finally getting to see you rather overshadows my fear at being in this situation. In any case, I am glad for it."

"Oh, angel." Crowley wants to melt right into him. "You're too adorable for your own good. I mean it."

"Well, I..." Aziraphale usually has a habit of fiddling with his fingers when he gets nervous, but as his hand is preoccupied with holding Crowley's he ends up bringing their joint hands over his stomach instead. With his head resting on the wall behind his back, his free hand reaches in to pluck and prod at each of Crowley's fingers, and Crowley is more than content to let him keep doing it. "Thank you, Crowley. You have no idea how thrilled I am when you say such things."

Crowley barely resists the urge to kiss him right then.

"Your turn to ask a question, angel."

"Ah, alright." Aziraphale shoots him a mischievous look. "This one I have been wondering about for some time now, ever since you told me your thoughts about Mr. Darcy. Who is the sexiest Jane Austen hero?"

Crowley raises his brows, throwing back his head in laughter. "You're really not gonna let that go?"

"I simply must know!" Aziraphale huffs, his lips drawing into a fierce pout. "So, who is it?"

"Don't murder me for this, angel," says Crowley. "Mr. Knightley, hands down."

"Mr. Knightley?" Aziraphale reels back in shock. "Oh. That is..."

"What? He's not bad!"

"I know, of course. He is quite marvelous, but not exactly the popular choice, I should say."

"And why isn't he?" As is his nature, Crowley sees a point to be contested and pushes on it. "He should be. What's he done wrong in the entire course of the novel?"

"Well, nothing, I suppose. But—"

"Exactly! He's absolutely fucking faultless. Really, I don't see the hype with brooding show-off Mr. Darcy when you have very reliable Mr. Knightley over there who is much more swoonworthy."

"Well, I suppose that most would just find Mr. Knightley a tad too ordinary to be sexy," Aziraphale remarks. "He is kind and patient and entirely rational. But compared to the array of heroes, he's rather boring."

"What's wrong with being ordinary?" Crowley asks. "Not everyone has to be flash bastard Darcy to be sexy. There's a ton of sexiness in a man who's just always been hovering around, but you're too much of an idiot to realise you're stupidly in love with him."

His eyes flick upwards, meeting Crowley's panicked ones. 

It dawns on him a second too late what exactly he just said, the _implications_ of it. 

"Crowley..."

"I-I mean!" Crowley chokes up, his shoulders tensing. "My text!" He blurts out without thinking. "The text I sent you before conking out about me missing you? We should talk about _that_ instead!"

"Crowley."

He yanks his hand out of Aziraphale's grasp to wave it at the doors. "For fuck's sake, when is this useless box of crap going to _move?"_

"Crowley!" Fingers press into the side of his jaw, pulling it to the side and then down.

At once, Crowley stares into a pair of bright and fiercely determined eyes, growing steadily closer until a warm mouth covers his own.

"I'm—mmm—z'phale," he mumbles helplessly into their pressed mouths. Aziraphale's eyes have closed, but his own remain wide open. 

Aziraphale pulls back with a frown. "Oh, hush. I have been wanting to kiss you for so long." His gaze flicks back to Crowley's mouth and very petulantly he says, "Kiss me _back,_ dearest, it will make me ever so happy."

"I-nghh." Crowley leans in with a quick peck to his mouth. "Like that?" 

The blond makes a barely audible chuckle, gazing at Crowley with unending fondness. His hand slides down to Crowley's neck, drawing him into a proper kiss, their lips slotting perfectly.

Crowley sighs, his eyes drifting shut involuntarily. It feels like his first kiss all over again, only it's much better because it's Aziraphale he's kissing. 

He's kissing _Aziraphale._

His arms wind around the angel's waist, drawing him closer as their kiss grows more heated, more sighs exchanged. Aziraphale runs his hand in Crowley's hair, making it even messier than it already is, while the other slides inside his jacket to rub his chest. Crowley gives an appreciative hum, his tongue slipping easily into Aziraphale's pliant mouth.

The lift rattles and shakes moments before it hums fully back to life. The floor shifts, and then, undeniably, they're moving again.

They break the kiss in shock, gaping at the ground. 

"Oh, finally," Aziraphale says, breathless.

"Could've done better with the timing," Crowley says, evidently annoyed. "Wasn't anywhere near done with that."

"Then I guess you will just have to agree to a second date." Aziraphale snuggles up to his side, running his hand up Crowley's chest and Crowley’s snake brain rattles like the faulty lift at the realisation that Aziraphale is apparently a very _touchy_ partner, and he'll likely get even more of these touches in the future. "And a third, and a fourth. In fact, make that plenty more dates, too many for us to count."

He lands a kiss on Crowley's cheek, brimming with affection, just as the lift doors open on the tenth floor.

"I had a lot of fun on this date. You have an amazing day. And do text me, my love," Aziraphale throws casually over his shoulder before he steps out and off the lift.

Crowley grins from ear to ear. He’s probably late for his meeting and he doesn’t even care.

\-----♡-----

[Anathema]  
**_Hey remember just a_ **  
**_few months ago??_ **  
**_When you were all_ **  
**_cynical about Vday_ **  
**_Mr. "feelings are a_ **  
**_swift kick in the balls"_ **

[Me]  
**Shut it.**  
**Also I said bollocks not balls**  
**We're dignified here.**

[Anathema]  
**_Lmao whatever._ **  
**_Aziraphale said he'll be joining_ **  
**_the group for supper right?_ **

[Me]  
**Yeah, but you lot**  
**have to be nice okay?**  
**Don’t wanna scare him off**

  
  


[Anathema]  
**_Of course we'll be nice!_ **  
**_OH, but do you want to know_ **  
**_what I just realized??_ **

[Me]  
**……..what is it**

  
  


[Anathema]  
**_It's going to be a full on,_ **  
**_unadulterated COUPLE'S NIGHT_ **

**...**  
[Me]  
**I regret so many**  
**things right now**

[Anathema]  
**_No you don’t :)_ **  
**_It was Tracy and I who urged_ **  
**_you to go to that Valentine’s_ **  
**_Day event remember?_ **

[Me]  
**You’re right.**  
**I can’t regret when**  
**it comes to Aziraphale.**

(As cheesy at it sounds, he regrets nothing when it comes to the angel. Not that blasted nosebleed, nor that cheap key-and-lock set, nor getting stuck on the lift with him and almost losing his goddamn mind. Forgive the cliche, the man’s smitten as it is.)

[Anathema]  
**_Alright, you old sap._ **  
**_I’m really glad you_ **  
**_found each other. <3_ **

[Me]  
**I’m really glad too.**  
**Thanks, Anathema**  
**For everything X**

  
  


\-----♡-----

Later, in a state of post coital bliss, Aziraphale tucks his face under Crowley's chin, their warm bodies pressed against each other comfortably. _Well_ , ‘comfortable’ is one way to put it. They're sweaty and sticky from sex and could probably do with a shower in a while. Yet, right now, Crowley wouldn't have it any other way.

It's late into the evening and they’re back in Crowley’s flat, after the dinner party and all the introductions (the angel's indoctrination into their little group, so to speak), with the moonlight filtering in through the sheer, translucent curtains and illuminating the otherwise dark bedroom. _I think I'm in love with you_ , he wants to tell the angel, but he can’t quite find the perfect way to convey it. Perhaps another time. Perhaps when the words finally catch up to the feeling.

There is much to be said about the capricious nature of fate. It has, after all, led him to several humiliating circumstances especially where the angel is involved. But being here, with Aziraphale snuggled up in his arms, bolsters Crowley's developing theory that the universe may have been on their side all along.

“Hey, angel,” he whispers, his fingers absentmindedly playing with the other’s hair.

Aziraphale peeks up at him, ghosting his lips gently over Crowley’s jawline and making him shiver. “Yes, my dear?”

“D’you think we’re going too fast?”

Aziraphale chuckles, shaking his head slightly. Crowley can feel him smile against his skin. “No - no, I don’t think so. I think… we’re going at our own pace now. Don’t you agree?”

“Yeah,” he says, moving his gaze down and finally meeting the angel’s eyes. “Probably with a few nudges from the powers that be. But at our own pace now, yes.”

“Good.” Aziraphale's eyes twinkle with wonder, almost glowing in this moonlit room, and Crowley lets himself be pulled into another kiss. The kind of kiss that feels like a promise, and he doesn’t even have to ask for what. He knows.

_He knows._

And it is purposeful, exquisite, and utterly sublime.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are much appreciated, thank you! :) 
> 
> If you enjoyed this fic, you might also wanna check out our other collab [Devil May Care](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27591661) featuring Sugar Daddy Manbun Crowley! 
> 
> Twitter:  
> Az - @angelsnuffbox  
> Courtney - @starrysheen  
> 


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